


Make a Pile of Mistakes at a Breakneck Speed

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Community: wrestlingkink, Episode Tag, Hate Sex, M/M, Mild Painplay, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: He had options. He wasn't some loser who needed to jerk it in the shower to the thought of Dean Ambrose.Baron and Dean, re-crossing paths after their Street Fight on the 4.4.17 episode of Smackdown.





	Make a Pile of Mistakes at a Breakneck Speed

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to finish this before the Superstar Shakeup rolled through, but so it goes. At least these two will always have ~~Paris~~ a communal shower in Orlando.

The shower wasn't any better than any of the hundreds of other locker rooms he'd been in - the nozzle, as always, just low enough that he had to stoop to rinse his hair, the water not quite hot enough and the pressure not quite right - but Baron still hissed as the spray struck his shoulders and back, the jets prickling and stinging against the crooked ladder of strap-marks the match had left him with. It was almost enough to make him regret bringing the strap out in the first place. Almost.

He shifted under the water, letting the needles of water burn over different sore spots, and remembered the sharp scent of the fresh leather and its weight and warmth against his palm. Something else prickled hot over his skin at the memory of the way Ambrose had gasped and squirmed at his feet, his mouth open wide and wet on a harsh breath and his back a taut arch beneath sweaty cotton.

Standing over Ambrose in that moment, knowing that he had been the one to put that hurt on him, had been more satisfying even than having his hand raised minutes later. He wondered if that would still have been true if it were a title match, and then turned and ducked his face back under the faucet, like the warm water could blast such a stupid thought right out of his head.

What the spray didn't rid him of was the memory of Ambrose's pained gasp at the bottom of the arc of the End of Days: the sound quieter but closer than the crowd noise in Baron's ear, a hot huff of breath on his skin and the give of his broad chest under Baron's own. He felt himself go half-hard and debated whether to do something about it himself here and now, or wait until he hit the hotel and could maybe find some company. Corey would probably be leaking under the desk after another hour of talking about Neville knocking the shit out of all the other little guys. Getting submitted always gave Alexa an extra jolt of fury that she sometimes liked to ride out on his dick.

He had options. He wasn't some loser who needed to jerk it in the shower to the thought of Dean Ambrose.

And yet, he was literally standing around with his dick in his hand when he felt eyes on him from across the room, and heard the echo of a slow-clap bounce off the tiles.

"Don't let me stop you, big boy," Ambrose said, and smirked, the red tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

"The fuck are you doing here, Ambrose?" He took his hand away and hoped his boner would get the message and go down until he could deal with it later.

"What? You takin' commentary's word for it that I'm just a filthy lunatic who doesn't know his way around a bar of soap?" Ambrose slung the towel that had been tucked haphazardly around his waist onto a hook on the opposite wall, and crossed the otherwise-empty room to turn on the showerhead right next to Baron's. He made a _tsk_ sound, stuck his palm under the spray and turned the knob all the way over to hot, and gave Baron a genuinely disappointed look. "Never took you for that gullible."

With a wink, Ambrose stepped under the water. It sluiced down his body and momentarily smoothed down the ratty mop of his hair. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth to drink from the faucet, throat working more delicately than any part of such a loudmouthed asshole should be allowed to do.

"Gullible would be believing you're just here to get squeaky clean," he said, keeping his tone even and bored, even though none of this was working to make his dick less hard.

Ambrose stepped back so that the spray pounded onto his chest, darkening the hair there, and chuckled, the tiled walls throwing the little burst of laughter back at them. "Yeah, okay. You got me there. The way I figure it, if you're gonna be a pain in my ass," he said, half-turning to show off that ass and the thin, red weal Baron had painted across it with the strap, "the least you could do is make it literal."

He grinned savagely and padded a couple of steps closer, well into Baron's space now. Well into range for a fist to come home with a thud or an open hand to crack a stinging blow, different from but maybe just as good as the strap. "Make it worth the while for both of us."

Before Baron had come up with an answer that would put him in his place, Ambrose lunged forward, one of his hands closing around Baron's traitorous dick, while the other probed the jagged red welt along his hip where the edge of a table had bitten into him before giving way beneath their combined weight. He shorted out for a second, between the good friction and the fresh spark of pain.

He shoved Ambrose away with a chop to his chest that sent him stumbling a step, his back slamming flush to the wall with a solid thud. All of the breath burst from his lungs with a sound that made Baron's own chest feel tight.

"You really know how to sweet-talk a guy," Ambrose wheezed, and curled his arm around ribs that probably still weren't right. Not that any of the guy had ever really been right, Baron reflected as he registered that Ambrose was hard now too.

Hard and grinning, like he'd won the street fight and their whole feud and the lottery on top. He gave himself a couple of leisurely strokes, and Baron heaved a sigh of disgust at himself when he realized that his gaze had been making a pathetic, hungry circuit between Ambrose's lazily pumping fist, a purpling bruise on his forearm, and a raw scrape below his collarbone.

“Aw, c'mon, now, it can't be as bad as all that,” Ambrose said, with another chuckle that made Baron want to break his jaw even at the same time it made his dick throb. “Why be a sore winner when you could be making me a sore loser instead?”

Ambrose turned to the wall at that, bracing one arm against the tiles and turning his back to Baron's view. His right arm continued moving in the rhythmic stroke Baron could no longer follow, the muscles of his shoulder and back bunching and shifting under his skin. Though he could see now that Ambrose didn't have a single line of ink, his skin was almost as colorful as Baron's own: irregular angry-colored blotches layered over mottled patches of blue and green and fading yellows and browns, and a tracery of thin red lines incised across all of it, one for each crack of the strap.

The streaming water made it harder to pick out the thick ropes and delicate lines of silvery scar tissue underneath, but Baron didn't care about those; he couldn't take credit for any of the scars. The color was all him. Something bright and hot surged through him at the sight and the memory of Ambrose giving way to him with a pained grunt on his lips.

"You're not seriously gonna leave me hangin' here, are you?” Ambrose asked, craning to smirk at Baron over his own bruised-up shoulder. “I mean, sure, maybe you're not Championship material, but you always struck me as the kinda guy to finish what he started.”

With a snarl, he slammed himself into Ambrose's back, making his forearm into a hard bar across his shoulder blade and against the base of his neck. Ambrose had to stop jerking his dick to catch himself against the wall to keep his cheek from cracking against the tile, and Baron felt chest expand and contract beneath him in another unhinged laugh.

“Now that's more like it,” Ambrose grunted.

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" he said, more sharply aware of his own dick rubbing against the angle of Ambrose's hip than he wanted to be.

"Dunno. You got any bright ideas how to make me?" He sounded almost as breathless as he did arrogant and his skin was hot and slick. Really, it was all giving Baron a lot of ideas. Mostly bad ones.

He huffed out a sound of disgust, at himself as much as at Ambrose, and pressed the fingers of his left hand past Ambrose's smirking lips. No surprise that his mouth was big enough to accommodate all four digits with only a little stretch. His tongue swirled across the pads of Baron's fingertips, and the heat and wet slickness of his mouth was turning out to be a piss-poor distraction from the press of the rest of his body against him.

He stopped his hips from rocking against Ambrose and drew back a step, the shower spray beginning to fall against his shoulders again, his dick aching at the sudden loss of contact. He took his arm away from Ambrose's neck, and raked his nails savagely down the solid line of his back.

Ambrose hissed in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening spasmodically around his fingers and spit beginning to drip sloppily from the corners of his mouth and past Baron's knuckles. Baron watched faint pink lines color up, perpendicular to the darker strap-marks, and repeated the gesture, this time drawing a rough diagonal from left shoulder to right hip.

The noise Ambrose made around his fingers, deep and guttural and needy, went straight to his dick. He drew another line of shallow scratches to make him repeat it, and pulled his fingers out of the slick heat of his mouth.

“'Bout time you got serious,” Ambrose panted, his lips wet and swollen, cheek flushed almost as pink as the fresh marks Baron had drawn across his back. The back he arched now, offering up the swell of his ass.

"You're even crazier than they say, if you think I'm taking you raw," Baron scoffed, struggling to ignore the way he could feel the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the center of his palms and his throbbing dick.

Ambrose groaned and pressed his cheek against the tiled wall. "Do what you want, baby, but stop bein' such a tease."

Baron spat into his palm, mixing his saliva with Ambrose's own. He dug the fingers of his other hand into the ridge of his hip, making sure to grind the pad of his thumb into the livid bruise that spread across the cheek of his ass. Ambrose moaned again with his mouth opening wide and his eyelid fluttering shut, eyelashes curling dark and damp against his cheek, when Baron pressed the first finger into him.

His breathing shattered into another shuddering gasp, and he quit talking shit again, in favor of a string of noises Baron liked a lot better. If he had the choice, he'd never hear another sound out of him that wasn't a breathy whine or a low-pitched grunt or a bitten-off _“fuck”_ , ground out while Ambrose pushed back onto his fingers.

He scraped his nails over Ambrose's hip and down his thigh, just to hear the noise he made and to feel him clench around his fingers. The motion brought him closer to Ambrose again, his dick caught between them, rubbing against Ambrose's hip. Baron shuddered at the friction and bit his lip to keep in his own desperate noise in.

At this rate, Ambrose was going to outlast him, and he wasn't about to stand for that. He scraped a trail across Ambrose's stomach and wrapped a rough fist around Ambrose's dick. He crooked the fingers inside him and got a headrush at the way Ambrose's hips stuttered helplessly between his hands. He wanted to scratch at Ambrose's skin again, to deepen old bruises and leave fresh marks in his wake; he also didn't want to take his hands away from either the close heat of his ass or his dripping dick.

He leaned closer still – his dick rubbing against his own stomach and Ambrose's side now – and fastened his teeth firmly around the ridge of muscle where Ambrose's shoulder joined up with his neck. Ambrose made a hoarse, strangled noise and jerked against him, his whole body going taut and then shuddery as he came hard, spattering Baron's hand and his own chest.

Baron worried at the unexpectedly tender skin under his teeth, working in a good bruise and narrowly holding off his own orgasm. His hips ticked against Ambrose's unstable form, not really under his own control anymore.

Ambrose blew out a shaky breath, and gave a little shiver when Baron smeared the come on his hand over his ribs and took the fingers from his ass. He gave a little shrug, and Baron opened his jaw and let him pull away. Instead of stepping back underneath his showerhead, Ambrose went down to his knees and took Baron's dick into his mouth with a suddenness that threatened to buckle his knees.

He braced an arm against the tiles, and reached down with his other hand – the one still tacky with Ambrose's come – to grab a fistful of his hair, already half-dry and curling wildly. He held him in place and gave a few sloppy thrusts, felt Ambrose choke on his length before he was coming down his throat with a groan.

Baron let go of his hair and stepped back under the spray to wash off sweat and come and traces of Ambrose, the sting of the water on the lines left by the strap reminding him that some of the evidence would linger. At least he'd given better than he got, he thought, watching Ambrose climb slowly to his feet and shuffle to stand beneath his own shower. Baron watched from the corner of his eye – who could tell when a freak like Ambrose might pounce? – while he scrubbed some lather haphazardly through his hair and fingered the rising bruise at the base of his neck. When he leaned back to rinse his hair, he took another long drink from the faucet, and Baron's still-sensitive dick gave a twitch at the thought that Ambrose would be washing the taste of him out of his mouth all night long.

Before he'd come up with a parting shot, Ambrose was cranking the water off and reclaiming his towel, rubbing it harshly over his hair. He caught Baron's eyes on him and snapped off a lazy salute before he stalked, dripping, back into the locker room. “It's been real,” he tossed over his shoulder with a final smirk.


End file.
